Depression

AdobeStock_50031686-650x433Yes, once again. Hormone Replacement Therapy has its joys and its drawbacks. I can only explain my occasional depression by the hormones, as otherwise I should be ecstatic every day. I’m happily married to the love of my life. I love her in real life too. I have friends who care for me and invite me to sail, to attend fun theme parties. I live in a beautiful home and have exciting adventures in Second Life that I would never attempt in Real.

Yet here I am. Listening to live music at Beau Belle Coffee Shop and crying uncontrollably. Well, I was. I’m OK now or I wouldn’t be able to type haha. <sigh>

There are days like this I think I’ll just chuck the whole thing. Pour my drugs down the toilet and flush them away just like I’ve flushed away my life in this vain attempt to be something apparently God didn’t want for me and I feel will never attain. Burn my dresses, toss my wigs in the trash and lock myself away in a small cabin in the Appalachians or something. (Notice I didn’t mention my heels. A girl’s gotta have something.) I wonder if they’ll deliver pizza up there? My tastes are simple.

Ever have days like this? Where nothing is worth it?

Fuck.

I’ll be better tomorrow.

Nightmare Solved

black-and-white-crying-girl-sad-Favim.com-1347828A while back I posted explaining to the person I love the reason for my — shall we put it mildly and call it distrust — of men. Not A Pretty Story. (Trust me… don’t read it.) I had the pleasure last night of discussing my first books (T-Girl in the Office) with a friend who had been reading this 9-book series. As noted before this is a romanticized version of my life. So she asked if one of the events was true. The scene of my near-castration at the hands of a gang of assholes. Sadly it was true. We talked about it for a while and I explained it had finally been figured out that I suffer from what I consider a mild form of PTSD. I’ll leave that diagnosis to those military types who have suffered real, actual trauma, not my piddling little panic. Nevertheless, it affected me and my life ever since. It has defined me. The result was a recurring nightmare. I’d wake up screaming at the top of my lungs. My dog doesn’t even wake up any more hahahaha.

In talking about this with her it slowly dawned on me: I have not had the nightmare in… I can’t recall the last time! I cannot recall!!! And I don’t want to think about it other than to note its demise. I can attribute this to one person and one person only. My love. I will call her Kelly here. My Second Life wife. Through her love and her love alone, her caring nature, calming demeanor and the fact that I know had I been with her it never would have happened. She would move heaven and earth to prevent it. I now realize that not all men are assholes who want to hurt me for no reason other than that I am different. Kelly would stand between me and any attack… physical or verbal. There is not a doubt in my mind. My darling, I could not love you more. Thank you for being in my life, SL and RL.

 

 

An Anniversary

tumblr_m7pfqovrna1qer7xro1_400December 14 marked the one year mark of my HRT. Before that I was working hormone-free, just soaking in the testosterone poisoning and being a girl. Found a doctor to prescribe my medication then he dies in an accident. Found a replacement and am very happy that I’ve begun my journey.

What I’m not happy about is my progress. I have a simple wish… to be able to walk down a street without seeing people elbowing their companions and pointing at me. How small a fucking town do I have to live in before I’m comfortable? I’d move to a cabin in the woods but I’m afraid my heels would dig into the dirt paths LOL.

I went shopping yesterday. Needed some retail therapy to get out of a funk. I bought some very nice stuff. Then I remembered when I was trapped with other townsfolk due to hurricane evacuation I had no male-type clothes to wear… I went en fem, sort of. Sloppy but me. So yesterday I actually bought jeans and a few shirts. Just in case. I can’t tell you how depressed it made me to think I may have to go back to them. I held them up and looked at them, tears in my eyes. I would hate it.

I’m giving myself two more years. My doctor said I’d reach full effect after three years. Fingers crossed. No matter how I’m dressed… how ugly I am… how unlike the many transition photos I see on Reddit that I’ll never be able to attain… I am a woman. <sigh>

Sorry. Holiday depression starting to set in. Happens every year around this time when I go out and see all the excited families shopping, laughing, enjoying the season. Will I ever get over this annual funkfest? Heehee <sigh> No

My only high point has been my discovery of Second Life where I’ve been able to start a life, find a love, and now even plan a wedding. Thank you Kelly Cross for coming into my life. Hope my downer of a post doesn’t scare you haha. I’ll be fine as soon as I see you log on.

 

An Epiphany

imagesI had a lot of traffic for my last post “Not A Pretty Story,” not the least of which was the person I was explaining myself to. (Thanks, my darling, for understanding.) It also generated comments on Facebook and Twitter besides my friends here at WordPress. Some insights were shared with me and one, in particular, has caught my attention.

As I am, in the most basic sense, hiding from life, unable to interact in ways a normal person takes for granted, I just may be suffering from more than simply being shy. The suggestion was that I have PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. While I have always thought of that in terms of combat vets who had witnessed and/or participated in the horrors of war, I have to admit I was just a tad stressed by my experience.

Since I was irritated and kind of blamed my therapist for putting me in the position to be attacked in the first place, I never went back. I cancelled her by phone. Had I instead gone and told her what happened, just maybe she would have (1) walked me through the healing process, and (2) given me a fucking discount! That would have helped. Instead, I’ve been stewing in this memory for a very long time.

I have written the incident into my stories several times now as an explanation for my protagonist’s personality. The very first series I wrote and published — T-Girl in the Office — (I’m not linking because this isn’t an advertisement post) is a telling of my life starting with working alone in a law firm midnight shift. Vastly romanticized, of course. Had to have a happy ending. The hope was that writing about it would dissipate its power. I tried three times not counting my previous post. I won’t again. It hasn’t worked. Going to sleep I hug my pillow dreaming of my love, wrapped in her safe arms. But during the night I have flashes.

Bottom line: if I’m ever going to be comfortable going out in public, much less dressed en fem, I may need to find a therapist. Haha! Could be more of a challenge that you think.

So thanks for your comments, everybody. Seriously. It has helped me. And isn’t that why we do blogs in the first place?

Not A Pretty Story

imagesA person I care deeply about wonders about my opinion on men. It’s a legitimate question. Because of the love I feel towards this individual I am writing this post. I want to advise the casual reader of my blog that this is not my usual smart-ass semi-amusing tripe I publish, or even something about the books I publish. So unless you are willing to read some serious shit, just skip this one and wait for the next post. This ain’t pretty.

Are we alone?

Have they all left?

OK, my love, here’s the deal. Prologue: by growing up utterly confused as to what the hell I was, what I was looking for out of life, I was led to some really dark places. This is not a unique experience for transgender people of my age. What I was was never covered in my high school health class, so how could I possibly know? By leading a life of cross-dressing and exploring the gay lifestyle — all of which proved unsatisfactory and unfulfilling — I grew depressed. Suicidal.

By suicidal I mean driving home from work considering which bridge abutment to steer into suicidal. When I found myself carefully studying the construction to decide which would be the quickest death I felt I just might need help. But when I sat in the middle of my barn on a bale of hay holding a gun I knew I had to do something now.

I saw my GP. I told him all these things. Scared the shit out of him, poor guy. He did tests to see if it was something chemical, but nope. All psychological. He advised me in the strongest possible terms to get to a therapist.

The Washington Blade. I don’t know if it still exists but it was the periodical of the area for following all things gay. I studied that bad boy like it was my Master’s Thesis. And I did find an article about a therapist who was holding a public meeting for those struggling with gender issues. I went. I listened. I talked to those also attending. Finally, I asked if she’d treat me and she agreed.

Now the raison d’etre of the story: two years go by. During that time, once she was certain she had me figured out, she wanted me to go out publicly en fem. Before we approached what she felt was best for me (SRS) I was to actually live full time as a woman. This was the step before that, however.

Seeking out venues that were safe for a man in a woman’s dress that was receiving no hormonal treatment at all, for a man who had five o’clock shadow by noon, one such venue was a drag club in North East Washington, DC. Not a good part of town. Not by a long shot. Back then you drove through it with your windows rolled up and didn’t look around or make eye contact. Yet for some bizarre reason, that is where the best shows were. Dupont Circle had much nicer bars but few shows. This particular NE club had a restaurant and bar along with live entertainment. I liked it.

So mid-evening I left the club headed for my car. There was no parking lot as such. Everyone had to park somewhere on the street. I was walking back to where I left my car. Ahead of me a group of noisy young men was on the same sidewalk headed towards me. I crossed the street. Bad move. Apparently they noticed that and did the same.

Trigger warning: don’t continue if you don’t want to read some sick shit.

The noisy men turned out to be sadistic assholes looking to torture someone like me. Yea! I won the door prize. They grabbed me and pulled me into the nearby alley. I thought I was in for the raping of my life. If I had only been so lucky. Instead two of them held my arms. I was immobile. They were younger, stronger, and far outnumbered me. I was at their mercy… of which they had none.

The leader lifted my skirt and roughly grabbed my manhood. The tight squeeze just added to my weakness. The pain was incredible. He had both my cock and balls in his hand and was pulling on it like he wanted to rip it from me Which I guess he did, actually.

Then he showed me his switchblade. The longest fucking blade I’ve ever seen. He held that in front of my face so I could study it carefully. He was talking trash all this time and the others loudly encouraged him. My ears were just ringing and I’m not sure I heard the words in a coherent way.

With one hand he held my aforementioned cock-and-balls and put the knife at the base of them. I’ll remember these words. In short, if I wanted to be a girl he would give me a free operation right now. I knew I was going to die. I knew if he cut me down there I would bleed to death before anyone came, and no one would come until I was gone. This was it.

I shit myself. I pissed myself.

Oddly, I think that saved my life. He backed away at the stench. He seemed to think that was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Laughing and pointing, I was suddenly released. I fell in a heap. I passed out.

When I came to I found just a small cut under my ball sack. Everything was intact. Messy. Smelly. But there. I managed to get to my car. I never again went out en fem in Washington, DC. I stopped seeing my therapist. I’ve been scared of crowds ever since. I stay to myself and will become nervous around any boisterous group like in a restaurant. So I eat at odd hours so there aren’t other patrons around. I got a job at a law firm working the midnight shift alone. I drove from the suburbs to my office downtown DC, parked in the underground garage, then drove back out. Just me, a computer and a constant workload. No human interaction for a few years. Loved it.

I left the area the day I no longer had to worry about working. Living in a small, very small, Florida town I interact with no one.

So there you have it, darling. The reason I say I don’t like men. It’s because they’ve never brought me anything but pain, real and psychological. To this day I have trouble sleeping without recalling those events. Except now I’m dreaming more and more about you.

There you are. A loving, gentle, caring person, the diametrical opposite of my past. Someone in whose arms I feel protected and safe. I’ve hurt you with my words. Please, darling, understand where I’ve come from and work with me. I can trust again with the right person. You are, without question, the right person. I love you. Please wrap me in your strong arms and tell me everything will be okay.

Temporary Decision

fb23fb5594dfc9873a6d26e108f3ac15In my recent post about my hurricane evacution experience (Reconsidering Stuff) I noted I was reevaluating my going about dressed as a woman. I’ve been doing this for years now without any confrontations, just indifference. But it’s also been years since we had a hurricane and forced into a confined space with CIS people.

If you could have seen the distaste oozing from their very pores. I wanted to shrivel up into a little ball like my sleeping dog. I tried to tell myself it was just concern over what the howling winds were doing to their homes, but I knew it wasn’t. It was me.

My thoughts are that is not right that I should force discomfort on others with my presence. It’s not particularly right that I adjust my own life just to please others, either. The truth is, I truly have a submissive personality. I always adjust to the desires of someone else. It’s just me. I know, I know, meek Isabella. Such a poor representative for the transgender community. <sigh>

A couple of days ago I drove around the Panhandle, all the way to Panama City Beach, checking out damage. I never left the car. I was uncomfortable the whole time. So today I scrounged around for whatever boy clothes I could find. Fetid, baggy, boy clothes to hide my girls in. Yuck! They are on the chair across from me as I type this. My Rachel the chiweenie is mashed against my hip, as usual, looking between me and the odd smelling items the short distance away. Even she doesn’t like them. At the very least I’d have to get something new.

I don’t know. I’m just looking. I tell myself I would still dress properly around the house, around my own property. That’s nobody’s business. It’s just public I would appear… not me. Shit. One problem with being a sub… it’s difficult to make a fucking decision.

Reconsidering Stuff

14212821_10154002099478473_6050285884801153000_n (1)Look at the photo to the left. This is a Facebook friend of mine, Daphne Dorman. Stunning, isn’t she. She’s everything I admire in a trans woman. Beautiful. Sexy. Strong. Confident. She just exudes a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude. Damn girl! I so wish I was like that. I’m not.

This reflection is caused by having spent most of a day and overnight in an evacuation shelter hiding from a hurricane. I live in the very small town of Apalachicola, Florida. Ground-fucking-zero for landfall. At first, I thought I’d just ride it out but after the governor called for mandatory evacuations I decided to take the safe way out and head for the designated hideaway. All I took with me was my dog Rachel, iPhone, iPad and two-day supply of hormones.

Let me note that in this small Southern town I have gone about living my life dressed and no one has bothered me. Looked some, probably (undoubtedly) gossiped about, but overall ignored. That’s what I sought by moving here and I’ve been satisfied. So what happens when these same folk are forced together in a relatively small area for hours? I went to the shelter in sloppy jeans I wear when puttering around the house and yard… a simple old tunic I picked up at a yard sale… and ladies, NO HEELS! I know I know, how could I? Just slippers comfy from years of use. I had my wig on but no make-up. I definitely  looked like what I am. And I was nervous. These people who usually just ignore me was forced to be in tight quarters, close enough to have to look at and, yikes, interact with. Don’t get me wrong… no one was mean to me. I didn’t have that happen. But I could just feel their distaste at having to be in my presence. You know that look. Like someone just farted in the air lock, face all scrunched up.

Now I have developed body dysphoria like I haven’t in years. I’m depressed. I know I won’t stay this way, I’ll be alright soon. I never stay depressed for long, I’ll get over it. Nevertheless, I’m reevaluating. I’m rethinking going out in public dressed as I am… a woman. I need to face it. I make other people uncomfortable. Having spent most of my life uncomfortable I certainly don’t want to make others feel that way. It’s a miserable feeling. Should I consider what I want over others? What gives me that right? I know what darling Daphne would do and that’s why I admire her. I’m not Daphne.

No decision yet. Right now I just finished giving myself a mani/pedi, fresh makeup and ordered a new dress over Amazon. I may feel better soon. We’ll see.

Snapshot_001As a palette cleanser, I took this photo on Second Life as I contemplated life, romance and my future. I fucking wish I look like this.